


langlock

by woodswit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Hogwarts, background romione
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28431459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodswit/pseuds/woodswit
Summary: Fred assumes he's doing Ron a favor when he takes a very tipsy, very angry Hermione back to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes for the night.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Fred Weasley
Comments: 17
Kudos: 187





	langlock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arlene56](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlene56/gifts).



> This fic was written for arleney/arlene56 for my follower giveaway celebration. She requested Fremione and Hogwarts shenanigans! I have to admit I'm quite out of practice writing for HP, so apologies for any errors/canon inaccuracies.

"And furthermore," Hermione Granger is saying loudly, swaying slightly and waving her finger at a confused and slightly stressed-out Neville, "the utterly grotesque depictions of goblins in _Hogwarts: A History_ demonstrate the deep-seated phobia of—"

"She's blotto," Fred says under his breath, glancing at his twin.

"Sozzled," George agrees, flinching as Hermione knocks over one of the small decorated Christmas trees supplied by the Room of Requirement, and hastily tries to right it, covering herself in tinsel and scattering the floor with tiny ornaments in the process, apologising to the tree vehemently.

It's sort of funny to watch, actually. Fred has never seen Hermione even slightly drunk—the most effect that butter beer seems to have on her is a flush of the cheeks and a willingness to relax slightly. Merlin knows what's propelled her to party _quite_ this hard tonight, but—ah, _that_ would be it. Reading his mind as usual, George nods to their stupid little brother, who is currently lip-locked with Lavender Brown. What an idiot. He could have _Hermione Granger_ , for fuck's sake. 

(He's mentioned this point, a number of times, to George; the first time, George agreed appropriately, and since then, he's taken to just sort of raising his brows at Fred. Maddening.)

When Fred looks back, Hermione is picking up a cup of something from one of the tables—someone else's drink. She regards it with a tilt of her head and a frown, the way a puppy might regard a toad before snapping at it—then downs the whole drink in one.

Everyone is giving Hermione quite a wide berth. They're scared of her at the best of times, when she's _not_ absolutely pissed and also very angry; this new drunk Hermione is unpredictable and highly dangerous. "D'you think we should step in?" George wonders, as the twins watch her together, heads cocked to the side.

Ever the cautious one, George is looking between Ron and Hermione, weighing the pros and cons of stepping in, noting how everyone else is scared of even approaching Hermione, but for Fred it's an easy decision. 

"If we don't—" he begins.

"—But if we do," George counters, and they watch Hermione set down the empty cup and wipe her mouth sloppily, swaying on her feet.

Fred doesn't hear the rest of what George says, however, because he's already striding over.

* * *

_Locklang. Lanolock. Langolock._ No, none of those are it. The roof of Hermione's mouth feels strangely fuzzy, which must mean she's close to getting the spell right. She watches Neville scoot backward anxiously, then break away to where Harry, Ginny, and some other Gryffindors are locked in some petty Quidditch discussion that apparently entertains them. They're all standing dangerously close to the thing she cannot look at, though, so she doesn't watch them for too long.

Why can't she remember the spell? A useful little spell for cutting short small-talk, sometimes Hermione thinks she ought to use it on herself, to stop herself from boring another person (this time Neville) to tears—but then she feels a mix of resentment. Everyone _else_ gets to bore _her_ to death all the time, with their Quidditch and their silly gossip and their illogical problems, why can't _she_ rant every now and then about the negative portrayal of goblins—

"What was this?" Fred Weasley is picking up her empty cup and sniffing it, then he wrinkles his nose. "Doesn't matter, I suppose."

"It was effective," she informs Fred Weasley loftily. Of all the people to approach her _now_. She needs her wits about her when she's around Fred Weasley, and even in her sharpest moments he makes her feel like a clumsy, blushing fool. She really ought to get away from him, before she blurts out something silly, like _the way your tee shirt hangs on your shoulders like that makes me as giggly as Lavender Brown,_ or, _you should know that I've thought about the skin at the nape of your neck, like, a LOT._

It also occurs to her that she ought to be policing the party for one of his and George's inventions, but then she abruptly decides that she doesn't care.

Fred Weasley is regarding her with interest, like she is an amusing toy he's been given, his lips twitching slightly.

"Hermione," he begins quietly, "is this your first time being drunk?"

"Lockslang," she snaps at him, pointing her finger and realising she is missing her wand, and she's got the spell wrong again. Her normally sharp mind can't seem to hold onto the right words. Bother upon bother. She pats down her pockets for it, then realises she is looking at Ron and Thing again, and there is a searing ache in her chest, right near her heart, so she decides to drink another Mystery Drink, reaching for the table of abandoned cups, swaying—and that's when she feels someone very confidently gripping her upper arms, and she considers Hexing whoever it is, how dare they touch her—

"Yep, I think it's time to leave," Fred Weasley mutters.

* * *

"You could just Levitate her."

The tunnel is lit by George's wand light, and Hermione is growing rather heavy in Fred's arms. Her wand, placed back into her pocket, digs into his side. 

(Some other Gryffindors apparently took her wand earlier, as a safety precaution. Cowards. Fred returned it at once, but he wishes he had placed it better.)

"Nah, tunnel's too small," Fred grunts, shifting her in his arms, as Hermione lets out a loud snore, head lolling onto his shoulder. "She'd hit her head."

"Never known you to be that clumsy with a spell unless you meant it," George points out lightly, strolling along with his hands shoved in his pockets. "Fairly certain she'd be safe."

"Look, it's almost the end of the tunnel," Fred replies, beginning to feel a little hassled, which is only because Granger is heavier than he realised and his arms feel like they're going to fall off. That's it, nothing else to it. He's just irritated because he's carrying something heavy, is all. Something heavy, which is also warm and smells good and is nuzzling his neck. "Might as well just carry her the rest of the way."

"Ah, of course," George says genially, as they reach the trapdoor to Honeydukes. He winks at Fred, the way Fred winks at anyone he's teasing.

When they get back to their flat above the shop, Hermione is starting to shift and mutter and groan. "Well, I'll leave you to it," George says as he turns on the lights. Fred's standing in the middle of their kitchen, aghast.

"What? No, you've got to help me with her, she's going to be furious whenever she sobers up—"

"Your problem, not mine!" George says before Disapparating with a crack, leaving Fred standing there, holding a Hermione who is fading in and out of her drunken half-sleep, muttering to herself.

"Lanolocks," she mutters into his neck. Her breath feels warm, seductive, against his skin. Fred has no choice but to pray that she isn't muttering some highly dangerous spell, and begin looking for a place to put her. "Loxlang, locomotolocks," she continues sleepily, clinging to him. "Your neck s'nice." 

(Did he hear, _your neck's nice?_ or, _you're next, ice?_ or, perhaps, some highly complicated and violent spell?)

(Does Hermione think his neck is nice?)

The sofa won't work; it's still covered in dust and debris from their latest project. He could conjure up a cot, but that doesn't seem quite solid or trustworthy enough for a witch—a highly talented one, mind—who mutters dangerous spells in her sleep. Nah, best be a real bed.

"No choice for it, Hermione," Fred says grimly, shifting her in his arms again. He wants to laugh as he imagines how she'll react to this when she wakes up, and he finds himself grinning at her imagined rage as he eases open his bedroom door with his toe. He considers dumping her in George's bed—that'll teach his twin to scamper off and leave him with a wild Granger—but you never know who George'll bring back tonight, and he has no interest in giving up his own bed to some unknown—or worse, some _known_ —witch.

Hermione's head rolls back, and Fred gingerly sets her on his bed. There's a flash of self-consciousness; he's no stranger to having a witch in his bed but Hermione Granger is no usual witch and if she decides, upon waking, that she doesn't want to be here, woe betide him.

"Locolang," she mumbles, burying her face into his pillow instinctively, and he feels a funny tightening in his chest. "Wha's the spell," she slurs, frustrated, and Fred can't help but laugh. Of course she would be trying to recall some complicated spell in her drunken state.

"Good night, Hermione..." he says, pulling the blankets over her, trying not to notice how they drape over her hip. Yes, Hermione is attractive, that's no secret—well, it sort of is, but it's one of those secrets that everyone knows. An open secret, a thing no one will admit, a thing he can't bring himself to point out. He's normally comfortable with speaking his mind and, as mentioned, is no stranger to chatting up any witch he likes, but—

—Oh, sod it. Yes, Hermione Granger is hot, and she's in his bed, and she's drunk, and he has no intention of examining the series of decisions that led him to this point, but he fully accepts responsibility for them, and if he ends up on the unfriendly end of Hermione Granger's highly skilled wand tomorrow morning, so be it. He's not a coward like Ron, or any of the other blokes who interact with Hermione.

 _Bring it, Granger_ , he thinks as he glances at her one last time, before shutting the door.

* * *

When Hermione wakes up, she is sleeping in soft, worn sheets that do not smell like her own, but instead have a comforting scent that is familiar, one that she can't quite place.

Oh, and her head is throbbing, and a spell pops into her head: _Langlock_. Why? Why??

Her mouth is cottony, her stomach is churning, and there is a sickly sweet taste in her mouth. She must be hungover; her symptoms match all of the descriptions she has ever read, she notes with a clinical sort of distance. But why?

She sits up, noting the smoking draught on the cluttered end table, and the little note in the cheeky, familiar handwriting compelling her, _drink me_.

The sounds and bustle of a town come in through the cracked window; Hermione gets to her feet, slightly weak, and peers out the window. It's Diagon Alley. Oh Merlin's pants, is she—yes, she must be. She knows that scent—she doesn't want to admit it—and she knows that cheeky handwriting, and—

Last night comes back to her in a flood of shame: Ron kissing Lavender, the many unidentified drinks she drank, and Fred Weasley... something about a tunnel...

Hermione sinks down on the edge of Fred's bed, her ears ringing. How many people saw her that drunk? What did she do—what did she say? Who did she Hex?

And then there's a thumping and a clang, and she realises Fred Weasley—and who knows who else—is just in the next room. It sounds like he's cooking. Oh, she can't face him, it's too humiliating. Because what if she let her true feelings show?

(She has always had a bit of a thing for Fred, it's fine, it's nothing. But it's just the tiniest bit embarrassing, so she keeps it a secret. Not that she needs anyone's approval or cares what other people think, but—but what if they started thinking she's simply got a _thing_ for Weasley men? What if they thought she set her cap for Fred (what an odious expression) because she couldn't have Ron? Her face is turning molten, it's simply too embarrassing.)

She'll just have to make a break for it.

Hermione gulps down the potion—it tastes greasy and fatty, yet she feels better at once—and then begins to hunt for a way out of Fred's bedroom that doesn't require walking past him. The windows face Diagon Alley, which is less than ideal, but—

"Hermione?"

Merlin's pants, Fred Weasley is standing in his bedroom door, wearing a lurid orange apron that clashes horribly with his hair, arching his brows at her as she crouches by the window, struggling to lift up the sash, one leg raised. She is acutely aware of how she must look, and then is resentful of this awareness.

"Fred." She tries to look like she isn't embarrassed at being caught trying to sneak out his window, as Fred folds his arms across his chest. She clears her throat. "Thank you for the hangover draught, but I've realised I have—I have some homework due, today as it happens, even though today's Sunday—"

"Hermione, are you trying to sneak out my window?"

They stare at each other, as Hermione slowly, with as much dignity as she can help, lowers her leg from the windowsill. 

"Obviously I'm—" she considers lying, but decides against it. There's really no way to spin this. "Of course I am, Fred. I can't be _seen_ here, what will people think?"

"Hm, good point. They'd think you upgraded to a superior Weasley, for certain," Fred says mock-thoughtfully, rubbing his chin, and she turns molten red. 

"Exactly, that's just the thing, they'll think I've got a Weasley _thing,_ and I cannot bear to be known for my taste in—in _men,_ above my spellwork or abilities," she sputters. 

"So you agree I'm the superior Weasley," Fred concludes with a twinkle in his eye, and he steps closer. 

"Of course not, you and all the Weasleys are equally—equally lovable," she says lamely, and Fred's grin turns roguish as he takes another step. His bedroom, she realises now, is really rather small. He's only an arm's length from her now. 

"Right, right," he says seriously. "And howabout our necks? All equally lovable?"

"Your _necks_?" she feels a flash of paranoia. She has a bit of a thing for Fred's neck; has he turned into a Legilimens now? "What on earth are you talking about, Fred?" 

"Last night." He takes another step toward her. "You said my neck was nice—"

"—Langlock!" Hermione blurts out in horror, halting Fred's speech at once. "I said no such thing, Fred Weasley, and besides, I was incredibly drunk, and I probably didn't even know who I was talking to, and—"

In spite of her waving her wand at him, in spite of having his tongue stuck magically to the roof of his mouth, Fred seems undaunted; he seems just as amused as he was before, and she realises he doesn't _need_ to be a Legilimens because her red face and her stammering probably have given her away anyway. "Oh, _finite incantatem,_ " she snaps, slashing her wand, releasing Fred from the spell. He's standing before her now, looking down at her with a grin that's making her heart pound. 

"Thanks for unlocking my tongue; think I'm gonna need it in just a sec," he tells her, and she sputters, _what,_ and then he's kissing her, and she forgets the damn spell again.


End file.
